Random. Stray. Thoughts.

1.  As most of you know I m a teacher in a small town.  Not only that, but the town in which I teach is too small for a Wal-Mart.  The closest Wal-Mart is 120 miles away.  The town where I teach is a border town.  The town where I teach is a casino town.

When my students proclaim they are going to go out and conquer the world, just as in any school, all of the teachers know approximately 85-90% of them are going to do no such thing.  All teachers know a few essential truths, and unfortunately one of those truths is most of our students are going to lead very ordinary lives, regardless of their claims.  So what's the big deal?  In my town, an ordinary life means working at one of the casinos once you are old enough to do one of the following: work in one of the restaurants/buffets, deal blackjack, be a cocktail waitress, or house-keeping.

Occasionally we have students who simply do not make it to graduation before the outside world beckons to them.  Nevada has one of the worst graduation rates in the nation, and living in a town of itinerant (relatively speaking) workers, does not make the community's efforts of establishing a sense of value in education any easier.  A class of approximately 90-100 students will come to my school in the 7th grade, and by the time they are seniors we will have about 50-55 left who are on track to graduate.  That's what we are looking at this year.  If we are lucky, we will have about 55 students graduate.

Of those 55, I'd say 15-20 are going to be going straight to college.  This number includes vocational and technical schools.  The rest?  Most of the rest will settle into their lives right here in town.  Most already have jobs, and quite a few of them have already been working full time.  It's a matter of economics.

So where is all this talk leading?  Well, I will tell you.  There is an unspoken contract between teachers and former students who have dropped out or have failed to make good on their promise to conquer the world in a small town such as mine.  The teachers forget all about the heartache and frustration those students caused us, and they forget about all of our nagging and tirades.  It's part of the contract.  When a former student checks me at the buffet or at the grocery store, I thank him or her with a genuine thank-you.  They are in the so-called 'real world' now, and they are providing me a service.  It's part of the contract.  When they come to me and ask for advice about getting back into school, I give them honest advice hoping they are actually going to listen this time, even though I know the chances are minuscule at best.  They mollify me by pretending to listen,putting on their best listening act.  It's all part and parcel of the contract.

Right about now, Spring Break, I am once again gearing up for the latest round of how things work in my town.



2.  I just bought three books of poetry from The King's English Bookstore earlier today.  All of the books I bought were by authors with a Utah connection.

a.  Jacqueline Osherow's Whitethorn

b.  Danielle Cadena Deulen's Lovely Asunder

c.  Kimberly Johnson's a metaphorical god


I will try to review all three eventually, but I wanted to introduce them anyways.  I have heard of Osherow and I have heard about a metaphorical god, but Lovely Asunder is a new one for me.

I also bought Helen Losse's book, Mansion of Memory, and I am certain it's going to be a good read.  I will let you know about that, too.



3.  I am not going to be participating in Kelly Russell Agodon's Big Poetry Give Away.  I am not feeling it this year, and I would rather not get in the middle of all of that. Last year I had books which went unclaimed and books returned to me because no such address existed.  Is it really that hard to follow through when you sign up to get a free book?  I will not be entering my name, either, because it wouldn't be right for me to do that when I am not going to be giving anything away.

I am feeling a little selfish right now, and that has something to do with it.  I am struggling to get back into the swing of writing my latest manuscript, and I need to spend time writing it rather than doing a lot of worrying about National Poetry Month.  That means I probably won't be trying to do NaPoWriMo, either.  I don't mean I won't be writing poems.  I just mean I won't be taking the daily challenge.

I am also trying to figure out how to better market my latest chapbook, Friday in the Republic of Me.  And yes, I understand the irony of saying this mere seconds after I stated I will not be giving away a copy of the book this coming month.  Again, I am in a weird mood, and I am a little more than on edge about the poetry community right now.  Having said that, I will let your imaginations go to work, because I am not elaborating any further.



coda

Today officially kicks off our Spring Break.  I don't know what that means for my blog.  I might get really hyper and post at every available moment, but I doubt it---that's what I have Facebook for these days.  However, I may still post a few times just to see what happens.

Book Review: Eduardo Corral's Slow Lightning

This review is more high praise than anything else.  I have said it before, but I refuse to waste my energy writing bad reviews.  I prefer to write reviews where I can heap on praise and admiration.  Here is yet another example.  I am certain this review will not influence many people to go buy the book.  In my own way of thinking, Slow Lightning by Eduardo Corral is probably the most anticipated book of poetry in the past several years, and rightly so.  We have all witnessed what talent and integrity amount to in the publication of this book, and that is just the way it is.  However, if you are on the fence about this book, know now I have nothing bad to say about it.  It is about as perfect a book can be, and in my humble estimation the very reason why the Yale Series of Younger Poet may still call itself relevant.

 * * *

Slow Lightning

Eduardo C. Corral

76 pp.,  Yale University Press

forward by Carl Phillips

ISBN: 978-0-300-17893-7

$18.00

I am probably the quintessential fool for telling any of you about how wonderful Eduardo Corral’s poetry is.  After all, most any of you who are reading this review have known this for years, and we have all been anticipating this book for quite some time.  However, I am going to put effort into something which should need no effort:  Convince you to buy Eduardo’s book, Slow Lightning.  Before starting, I must say my knowledge of Eduardo the poet is far greater than my knowledge of Eduardo’s poetry.  Prior to reading this book, I had only seen a handful of his poems in various on-line journals.  In this telling I can assure you there is something synergistic about reading his book as opposed to reading one or two poems catch-as-catch-can.

My first look at Slow Lightning was sporadic.  I usually thumb through a book before I start reading it seriously.  It gives me a sense of what I am going to be able to expect.  I stopped on occasion, read a poem or two, and then would look at how individual poems are structured.  Normally this gives me a good sense, like I said before, but with Corral’s book, it was no preparation at all.  Oh, I knew his poems were going to slip between English and Spanish, and I knew some poems for formatting were printed on their sides, but those things, if you will allow, are cosmetic.  Important in the final analysis, yes, but cosmetic.  What I am talking about here is language.  I am talking about Corral’s ability to be expansive and terse; formal and informal; elegiac and joyous. 

I wish I could avoid talking about contradictions in this quasi-review.  I wish I could give you a straightforward analysis of the poems and structure of the book, but my saying expansive and terse, elegiac an joyous are only a beginning at best.  I hesitate to say something superficial such as confessional, but these poems are so intimate and personal I find it difficult to ignore their immense presence as I think back on them.  Corral finds the most apt places in his poems to divulge this information, and much of what he reveals is hidden in the context of narration, which belies its significance until you are right on top of it.  By then it is too late.  You can do nothing to prepare yourself and you cannot deflect any of the impact.

On the other end of the spectrum is Corral’s ability to create grand moments of language.  He directly references Frida Kahlo in the title of one poem, but it is in another I see what I take to be connective tissue between Kahlo and Corral’s work.  In the closing lines of “Temple in a Teapot (aqui esta el detalle)” I found this:

Canaries flit from branch to branch in a pear tree

wing bones knitting the blood inside their bodies

into ruby handkerchiefs in the breast pockets

of the handsome men who shoulder her coffin

Corral is not referring directly to Kahlo, but I feel a transcendence of sorts, a transference from the woman in his poem to Frida Kahlo.  I would at least like to believe these lines have some otherworldly connection to the paintings of Kahlo and perhaps, Diego Rivera.

Slow Lightning tells stories, offers powerful imagery, and is supremely confident in its construction and tone.  Part of that must be due to Corral having lived with the manuscript so long, but as far as first books go, there is a maturity which goes far beyond time.  Every page and poem is evidence; each makes the reader more aware of why this book was selected for the Yale Series of Younger Poets.  Looking back, now having read the book in its entirety, I not only see a book worthy of reading again, I also see the announcement of a new voice to be reckoned with within the poetry community.  Having known Eduardo Corral as a poet and now knowing his poetry on a much better level, I look forward to more of that voice with great anticipation.

Book Review: Paisley Rekdal's Animal Eye

Animal Eye

Paisley Rekdal

86 pp., University of Pittsburgh Press

ISBN: 978-00-8229-6179-6

$15.95

This is the first book I have purchased written by Paisley Rekdal, but I can assure you it won’t be the last.  From the beautiful, startling first line of the first poem, “Why Some Girls Love Horses,” through the dizzying splendor that is contained in the long poems “Wax” and “Easter in Lisbon,” I have been captivated by the sheer confidence and energy of Animal Eye, and I want more.  Set partially in the context of questions, Rekdal moves quietly along to satisfy her own curiosity while sparking that of the reader. Coming along for the ride is her wonderfully unique phrasing and diction, which is a pleasure all on its own.

My initial reaction to this book is to its immensity, its dense language, how each poem asks the reader to immediately go deeper than one might imagine or think necessary.  For example, in the poem “Nightingale,” Rekdal wastes no time in setting the scene.   There is a boy at a window at night waiting for a bird and the next moment we are waiting with the boy as the poet makes allusions to Odysseus.  That isn’t to say Rekdal ignores the precise and new image in favor of transporting the reader.  Read how she describes the bird, folding the specific imagery into the poem as a whole:

        I can sense its gold eye,

the throat encrusted with glass.

I can hear the water slapping

the white sides of the shore.

In other places Rekdal employs, as the title of the book suggests, animals (and specifically the eyes and how they might see the world).  However, she is mindful not to belabor the point, only using the imagery when it is best.  For example, in the poem “Voyeurs,” which discusses a thoroughbred, I cannot help but see the large black, glassy eye of a horse, though no such image is used in the poem.  It is as if Rekdal knows what we will see on our own and knows when she does not need to take us directly to an image.

Travel is obviously part of Rekdal’s vocabulary as a poet.  Two of the poems, those mentioned above, constitute entire sections of the book, and while they are not by any means traditional narratives, the reader should immediately sense important stories (and questions) are being shared.  The poem “Wax” begins in ekfrasis, a reaction/discussion of the wax figure of Jean-Paul Marat created by Madam Toussad just after his assassination, but according to Rekdal’s formula, the poem quickly moves into a much deeper contemplation while still holding to the narrative as a guide for the reader. 

For too many reasons to mention, my favorite poem in this book is “The Orchard.”  I admire most everything about it.  It is about family, it is about honesty, it is about the culture clash evident between the generations, and it is about memory.

                                      My grandfather was good,

I remember, at fixing bicycles and shelves,

he could replace a car clutch and once

devoted an entire basement wall to a series

of aquaria he’d built himself and stocked.

None of these interests did he pass on to his children.

He sat instead quietly through dinner,

fingering his dish of salt plums, slipping each

from its waxed wrapper to suck the meat to a pulp

full of the brined tart juice of summer.

Coming away from these poems, this book, I am pleased there is more than enough reason to return again.  One reading is certainly not enough to fathom the wonderful depth here, and I would put it to you to commit yourself to knowing this before you start.  These poems will demand of you something more than a lot of what is newly available in the poetry world.  Still, you should not fear that commitment because Animal Eyes will welcome you, treat you as a worthy participant in the genuine curiosity and wonder expressed here.  The real question will be which, if any answers you come to, and if in turn you are willing to share.  You should get a copy of this marvelous book and see for yourself.

Friday in the Republic of Me: Eight Steps to Happiness!

Hey Everyone!

How is your work week going for you so far?  Do you want a little excitement to break the monotony that is your working life?  Well if you do, I have a great plan to make that happen!

Step One:

Buy My book, Friday in the Republic of Me.

Step Two:

Take a picture of yourself with my book after it arrives.

Step Three:

e-mail me the picture, along with your mailing address.

Step Four:

Wait.

Step Five:

Receive your signed copy of my book in the mail.

Step Six:

Give away your un-signed copy of Friday in the Republic of Me to some unsuspecting friend or neighbor.  Be sure to document your subversion by taking lots of pictures.

Step Seven:  

Post the pictures to your blog and to Facebook.

Step Eight:

Let the hilarity ensue!

Review Number 3: Finding a way out

The Sounding Machine

Patty Paine

72pp., Accents Publishing

ISBN 978-1-936628-11-7

$12

When I purchased The Sounding Machine a few weeks ago, I really had no idea what I was going to get.  Before reading the book I had little experience with Patty Paine’s poetry.  I primarily knew her work as an editor.  When I receive the book and started to thumb through its pages, I was pleased to find a wide range of the types of poems I saw.  I saw poetry which immediately intrigued me, made me look for a structure which might lend itself to the reading. What I found, as I started reading, was quite unexpected and quite lovely.

Patty Paine begins her collection simply enough, with an ars poetica poem which only later reveals itself as hallmark to the heavy lifting the reader is about to undertake in the pages which follow.  “Arse Poetica” warns us we are not going to get everything we want.  It tells us there will be subject matter not to be toyed with or taken lightly, that in fact:

                      there are days

when language is heavy

furniture you push around

a house made of nothing

but hallways.

Shortly after, Paine gives us entry into the description of her difficult childhood.  A series of prose poems cuts the issue to the bone, describing the clash of two cultures, sickness, divorce, abuse, alienation, and the need for escape.  In those brief prose poems lies the entire summation of an all too common experience with the culture shock which accompanies war time marriages.  In these prose poems the concept of the vow is visited several times.  Paine takes the reader on a difficult ride in just a few pages, but those pages are an essential history.  As readers, we need to know that history in order to make sense of what comes next.

What follows is nothing short of astonishing.  Paine proceeds, in a seemingly effortless transition between poems of memory and observation.  At times, the poems appear airy and light, contradicting in appearance the gravitas of important issues.  However, one should not be fooled into thinking this means some of the poetry in this book lacks purpose.  Every poem stays on point, never letting you forget what is being discussed.  In “Dogs,” one might be tempted to believe there might be a short rest from the path the poet has carved for herself, but that misconception fades when one reads:

Sometimes I feel

like a child with holes

in my pockets, every day losing

some small stone of myself.

While reading these poems there were moments I felt I was on some kind of Orphic journey where I was learning how to escape from the prison of a dysfunctional family. Of course, Paine is leading the way, but instead of the insecurity of Orpheus, Paine shows remarkable strength and dexterity, forging ahead to a place she knows without question, is indeed safe.

Ultimately, this is a book of healing, and there is much healed and much yet to be healed.  For my part as a reader, the specificity of these poems, their clear voice makes me feel as if I have been given the gift of trust.  Paine brings in the reader, gives over these revelations almost saying there now exists a record, but it’s more than that.  She is saying I trust you enough to know these things about me and This is how I know all of us can survive.  Having read these poems I have found some courage to perhaps re-tell some parts of my own history which I have avoided telling up to this point.  I suspect you will come to some of these same conclusions when you read The Sounding Machine, and that is a good thing.

Book Review Two: My Own Private Walden

Vine River Hermitage

F. Daniel Rzicznek

36 pp., Cooper Dillon Books

ISBN: 978-0-9841928-6-1

$9

If any of you are familiar with Dan Rzicznek’s book, Neck of the World, you can expect to see a deeper, more personal meditation with Vine River Hermitage, but if you are not, then this slim book is a fine place to be introduced to his work.  For disclosure I will tell you I have long been a great admirer of Dan’s poetry.  It was him I turned to when I needed a final crucible for my own book, and as such you are entitled to know before you proceed with this review.  However, I hope you will see things the other way around.  The reason I went to Dan and asked him to read my manuscript was because of his immense talent.  If my reading of Vine River Hermitage was the only thing I knew of Dan’s work, I would be saying much the same as I am now.

When I first walked into this book, I was immediately struck with the singular expression of solitude.  Not any ordinary loneliness, but one built with care and complete awareness.  The narrator of these poems has chosen a solitary existence and renews this conscious decision with every step, image, and breath.  Something else, too.  I may be off when I say this, but I cannot help but to recall the story of Justin Vernon, hiding himself away for nine months and recording the Bon Iver album, For Emma, Forever Ago.  As I read these poems, I became more certain Dan was presenting something very similar, presents his narrator escaping something immense for the safety of an almost Walden like existence in order to compose something necessary, something vital.

In this book, the seasons, beginning with Spring, are set forth as cornerstones to the other poems.  Where the set structure of each of these poems (4 ten line stanzas which remind me of some hybrid of the glossa) might get lost in a larger collection, in this chapbook is heightened, signaling a quiet, collective meditation. 

At every turn, the narrator speaks of a need to heal himself, make himself whole again.  In the second poem of the book, “Springline,” the narrator speaks to an unknown reader, evoking the tone of an aubade and invoking the feminine.  Rzicznek ends the poem with a haunting final image best left for you to discover.  In the next poem, “Kingbird,” Rzicznek’s narrator admits something has failed.  Throughout the poems, lines such as these strike definite chords:

My royalty couldn’t command a cattail

to bow to the breeze, couldn’t muster

a rabbit from a flooding rabbit hole.

. . .

Between us, the ruins of my empire

. . .

Sorrow for me was a half-fancied

legend before today, as if the dawn had

a mote in its eye and it was her.

. . .

Throughout the book, Rzicznek pays homage to the natural world.  In “Great Barrier Reef” he creates a division between the natural world of his hermitage and the city from which he finds escape.  The poem begins:

The first royal thing: moss growing

In the sidewalk’s lunar cracks.

The big doors open when pressed.

later in the poem:

a city block of wreckage the news

drags through a sunlit morning

toward ragged oblivion and back.

Dan Rzicznek is a master of the line and the line break.  Each line feels solid, pure, an event of its very own, and his breaks are so natural one can’t help but be propelled through every poem.  He has certainly done his work with this book.  I read somewhere some of what Rzicznek said about this particular book.  He stated the poems are thematically and structurally diverse, and span a great amount of time.  I do not feel that when I read  them together.  This book is certainly more than the sum of its parts and I would like to believe the synergy ( I hope that is not a bad word to use in conjunction with poetry) one experiences with Vine River Hermitage is a matter of craft and not coincidence.

I would offer to you this parting thought:  The time spent with this book has the potential to serve as a break from your everyday life.  It can be a sabbatical for you without you being forced to leave the comfort of your home.  Better still, however, these poems might inspire you to reconnect with the natural world, inspire you to create your own hermitage, and return to your world knowing a little more about yourself for making that experience.

Book Reviews: Number one in a Series

Over the past few weeks it has been a real pleasure to buy books.  I have been extremely fortunate in my purchasing choices, and I want to share my good fortune with you by telling you about four of the books I have bought.  For some of you the names will be quite familiar, and maybe a name or two will be new, but I can say with all confidence, all four of these books are worth your money and time.

The four books are (in the order I read them):

Wearing Heals in the Rust Belt, by Karen J. Weyant

Vine River Hermitage, by F. Daniel Rzciznek

The Sounding Machine, by Patty Paine

Animal Eye, by Paisley Rekdal

 

Because I want to give each review the spotlight, I will be writing and publishing each new review every few days.  I feel if I bury them together, not enough focus will be placed on these books and none will receive the attention they deserve.

* * *

Wearing Heels in the Rust Belt

Karen J. Weyant

40pp., Main Street Rag

ISBN 978-1-59948-343-6

$11

In Karen Weyant’s fine chapbook, the reader is treated to a kind of landscape poetry which is at its best, a hybrid combining the very real world of the title-implied rust belt and the emotional landscape of the author’s youth.  Weyant pulled me in with descriptions of a world caught somewhere between the rural and the urban.  The poems describe a town small enough to find itself on the cusp of losing some essential part of its identity.  In fact, this book, helps give me a better definition of the Rust Belt: A rural community or sensibility trapped within an industrialized landscape, still adolescent, still unsure of its urban identity.

Karen proclaims herself a country girl, and at each turn, these poems reveal she is confronted with learning something new about her world.  In the poem "Blood Moon” she learns about religious hyperbole.  In “Buck Season” she encounters the hunt and through her sister vicariously touches death. In “Why I stopped collecting Bees” she discovers puberty and begins a process of growth.

Taking this theme of discovery, Weyant talks of experiences before she can define them.  In the poem, “Landscape with Cold Scarecrow,” she talks of the, subliminal danger of unrequited love.  Speaking of a would-be suitor to her friend, Weyant states:

                        But we weren't afraid.

We were country girls who carried penknives

in our pockets for protection, kept

our fingernails long.  Stalking, we

would call it now, But back  then,

we wouldn’t have known that word.

Over and again, the poems in this collection mark the exact moments when a young girl becomes aware of new truths.  One by one, these stories are recounted and the reader ends up learning from the poems not only how to define the idea of 'Rust Belt' but also to use the poems to reawaken the touchstones of his or her own growth.

I can recommend these poems not just because they define place.  That is part of American poetry and any good poet takes time to do that.  What drives me to say good things about these poems is Wyeant’s ability to make me care about the people in her poems.  Whether it is the narrator, or those who seem to be antagonists, I care deeply about the people of the poet’s world.  Every poem makes me want to linger and start conversations with them, ask for their side of the story.

I admire the precision of these poems.  Every poem contributes a necessary picture, an essential fragment to the narrative. If there is something missing in this book, I certainly do not feel its absence.  In Wearing Heels in the Rust Belt, Weyant does the reader justice and serves the corm of the chapbook a great service.  There is specific purpose in these poems,unity, and because of them I am able to see and ultimately feel even more of the world.  I know these poems can do the same for you if you give them a chance.

Book Contest: Friday in the Republic of Me

I have decided to have a book give-away contest of sorts.  Here's how it works:

1.  For the first 10 people who buy a copy of my chapbook from Foothills Press and then send me a picture of themselves with my book in hand, I will give a free"signed copy" of the book.  Include your mailing address with your e-mail and I will send a free signed copy as soon as I can.

2.  What good is that you ask?  Well, you keep the signed copy and subversively give away the other copy you bought to some unsuspecting individual and/or organization.

3.  Tell me where the chapbook went, and I will post it her and on Facebook then send you a little bit of swag for your efforts.

4.  Let the hilarity ensue.

* * *

If you order by the 5th of March, you will get free shipping.  Oh what fun we can have!

Buy my Book when it comes out! Old Post Revived

Having just received word my latest chapbook, Friday in the Republic of Me, is about to hit the presses, I thought I would revive one of my old posts concerning publishing and the concept of contests.  To be clear, I have won exactly one chapbook competition in my life.  Since then, I have had the good fortune to have found an editor willing to work with me on a whole laundry list of publications.  Michael, over at Foothills Publishing, has been wonderful through the publication of three chapbooks and one full length book.  

So, in addition to this being a sales pitch, I want you to read what I have said in the past about the things which I feel are important regarding contests, publishing, fees, awards, and a lot of other ramblings.  This particular post comes from August, 2008, about the time I received my contributor copies of my third chapbook, Working in the Bird House.  Long before my full length book was accepted, dropped and then picked up again.  It was just before I started writing what would become my manuscript, Sailing This Nameless Ship, based upon The Telemachy.

The first part (smaller font) was my response to a post by Collin Kelley.

150 years ago, a poet could make a living being a poet. Poetry books were plentiful and some were dreadful (just like the over saturation of the so-called psychological serial-killer murder novel) and some were astounding, but most poets could make at least a simple living.

Poets look to the contest because that seems to be one of the three or four so-called legitimate publishing venues offered and virtually 90% of all presses who make themselves known to the writing world at large (see what I did with the word large?) operate on contests and the fees they generate. They try to attract quality judges with honorariums and hope to pay poets a stipend up front because they know if a press run of 500 or 1000 sells out, that is a contemporary miracle unto itself.Readership of poetry is down. 

That much is obvious, but what should be as plain to see, is the establishment refuses to acknowledge that. Where the old leadership could once get away with putting down self-publication as being base and tacky, they forget that money has become a part of the series of questions editors have chosen to be subject to when deciding what to publish. The big houses only publish the 3-4% of those poets who will sell out a first run without breaking a sweat---and that determination is based a a whole lot of assumption.

One of my old professors, a dear friend of mine, who used to publish his books through Copper Canyon gave one of his strongest warnings against self publishing while ignoring one very telling contradictory statement. He basically admitted that if Sam Hamill himself hadn't taken a liking to him, he doubts any of his books would have been picked up elsewhere. Now that Copper Canyon turned down his latest ms. as 'un-readable,' he's in a position where other presses have had a chance to see what his poetry is, and actually ask him to submit. But without that break where would he be?

Most new poets find themselves in the same boat, and look to contests to break in to the world of publishing. They want to feel legitimate or legitimized, and a prize has that connotation. It isn't the money if you are in serious contention for a book, and it isn't prestige. Well, not in this world anyways.

Publishing poetry today is like navigating the perfect storm. Too many elements controlling the issue which spill over into to many other realms, which cannot all be solved at once, except for brief calms or cloud breaks, where the occasional poet is lucky enough to slip through.

As you can see I have said a few things about the subject, but I really do feel as if I am leaving a lot out, and that is why I am here to say even more. What I am about to say is based not on my intellectualizing about the publishing industry, or assumptions about what other poets think about the issue. It really is my personal side of things---that conflict I feel between my position as a Poet and poet.

I am not one of those people who can claim to have never submitted my poetry to a contest. My first chapbook made it to about a dozen contests in various forms, about half of them for pay at $10-12 each. It finally was a contest which sent it to publication, but I honestly cannot remember if I paid a reading fee or not. I honestly cannot remember. I know there was no cash prize, only books. My second and third chapbooks were submitted to only one press each---Foothills Publishing. What an honor it was to have found an editor who liked my poetry, especially poetry of such divergent voice and subject matter, enough to give me the green light almost instantly.

I know that's not every one's experience, but I have had my woes, too. I have explained in various formats and versions the 18 month communications blackout one editor imposed who was supposedly very interested in publishing my first chapbook all the way back in 2001. That first book made it out in 2005, almost 9 months late from its scheduled release. But I digress.

I am not so sure that I resent the contest system. Above I mention how presses need money for attracting quality judges who are respected by their peers. But there is more. Presses feel a need to offer money to the winner of the contest, which in all reality will be the only royalties a poet will receive from his or her book. Money in itself is not so much a draw for the poet, because $1000 here or $1500 there is certainly not going to provide a living for any poet. But I can tell you that if I received notice that my full length book was going to be published in the coming year and I told all of my friends, about half of my non-writing friends would be asking me how much I was going to be paid. You see, while poets try to think of themselves as being better than placing a monetary value on their art, the rest of the world isn't so stuck up. What matters to them, to most people, is getting paid for your work. If I am honest with you and myself, I have to admit that I feel some pressure to feel as if I am being compensated for my writing. I don't want just satisfaction for a job well done, either. I want to show people that I can prove that I have beaten the odds and established myself to be higher on the food chain than what is popularly perceived to be a poet's place in contemporary society---that of little more than pond scum. Let me be plain about this: There is nothing bad about feeling as if you have been justly paid for your effort. 

While there are certainly mis-management issues all over the publishing world, and large, commercial presses continue to ignore 99% of the best poetry being written and published in journals in favor of those three or four names they know will sell, it does not mean they are responsible for everything that is wrong in the attitudes which prevail in the publishing world. As Collin and others have pointed out, the proliferation of MFA programs has a share of the blame. Where they once were the solution to the sometimes snobbish image of The top programs in the nation, they are just as likely to be nothing more than a cash cow for the university which sponsors them and a quiet, anonymous haven for the mediocre faculty who populate them.

Poets have a portion of the blame to share themselves. Both Poets and poets have a share they must own. On one level we are an amazingly supportive group of people. We rally around each other's successes, and of course we are outraged by injustice in it's many forms against poets. However, there is an ugly side to each ones of us. I myself have many times been quite critical of others as well as being the outsider. Many times this is my own doing, but I can no longer count how many times I have been snubbed as a poet by other poets because I was on the wrong side of the state, or because I don't have a full length collection behind me, or because I haven't been a featured instructor at a high profile workshop.

The Old Guard has its slice of crow pie to eat, too. Though I feel there is currently a shift in attention happening, too many people are still identifying each other by who they learned from or who they like to read. Let's face it. The Old Guard likes that, and who wouldn't? They get all the great gigs, a lot of the judging fees go to them for reading a dozen manuscripts, people come to hear them read and tell amusing stories about the dead, and their books bring real revenues to publishers which guarantee the next book. They no longer have to play the game because editors fall all over themselves and each other trying to get them to send their next manuscript their way. The Old Guard simply doesn't speak out enough against the kind of crap going on. And why not? They had to face down the big names when they were young and they see it as a rite of passage. To be honest, some of that is a good thing.

So now we are to the editors. Some editors, as you know, are the most wonderful people on earth---better than the Elks. They champion the people they can rather than those who will be a shoe-in for sales. Unfortunately there are a lot more editors who see a dollar sign or are too consumed by what they think others will think of them if they publish 'you-know-who.' Editors need to be more brave in choosing the right poet for the day rather than trying to guess who will sell. Let me say that again. They need to be brave enough to choose the poet who is right for the day. Poetry is transitory. Poetry is meant to reflect the spirit of the day, be an immediate impression brought to the world's attention.

So now we are back to the contest system. Like I said, I am not so sure I hate the system. My full length book is out to four to six presses. I think two are pay contests. However, every one of the places I submitted to were presses I felt an immediate connection with. One press isn't even offering cash---just copies. The other press is $500, which if I win, will be gladly traded for author copies. You see, I am not entirely naive. The contests worth winning are those contest we would buy from even if we weren't poets, but merely readers of poetry. This is connected to the poets, because we have the real power in this. If we don't submit to questionable presses, they don't do business. Now I know there are far too many naive poets out there who think the first forty-five poems they ever wrote are ready for book publication, so they send it out to press after press, paying $20-35 a pop. That brings us back to the poet community and awareness education, which is, I suppose, what everyone is doing by bringing attention to this latest scandal.

My overall point, if you have decided to skip all of what I just wrote, is that there is not any one thing which can account for the problems that contests create, nor can we simply dismiss the system as flawed beyond any chance to redeem itself. Ask any contest winner and see if winning the prize and publication was the worst thing that could have happened. Most will say that their experience was just fine. We need to take Stacey Brown's experience for what it was---an example of a press who obviously has their priorities way out of whack.

Clarification

I have always been kind of slow when it comes to these sorts of things, so bear with me.  I was just informed by someone my post yesterday, regardless of my explanation near the top, might be taken by some to be an accusation or sour grapes on my part for not being “embraced” by the poetry community as much as I might hope.  It was also suggested what I have said might come across as being ungrateful by those who have indeed accepted my into their personal neighborhood of said poetry community. 

Let me be very straightforward and blunt.  In no way am I trying to express anger, sour grapes, or come across as being ungrateful.  In this regard, I am none of these things.  I am simply trying to come to grips with what I see to be a list of expectations in the poetry profession and my inability to meet those expectations. 

For the record, I have had a great deal of success in the poetry community.  Three chapbooks, another about to be released, a full length collection, and publication in many wonderful journals.  I also count among my successes the many acquaintances I have made because of this blog, poetry in general, and the many presses from whom I have purchased books.  I count myself very fortunate to have so many poets consider me worthy of their time and trust when they share news and new poetry with me ahead of the public in general.  Thank you to everyone (and I hope you all know who you are) because you have made my life in poetry something I cherish.

My point is this:  I am at a point in the development of my life as a poet where one might accurately state my serious apprenticeship has begun.  With the amount of success I have had, a certain amount of devotion and effort was required.  And to use the analogy of martial arts, the original black-belt was a mark not of mastery, but that the student was serious about studying the art.  I am not a master by any means, but I am serious about the art.  Unfortunately, I am at a critical juncture I see several of the poets I admire have gone through, and I am simply not equipped to travel along any of the paths they have taken.  I am not speaking of the “every poet takes a different path.”  I am speaking of the routes a poet must choose between when getting ready to make that next advancement, reach that next level of devotion and commitment to his or her art.

What I  know about the next step for me is that it will not be the same next step (again, generically speaking) I have seen so many other poets take.  My commitment to poetry remains high.  I am still in love with poetry.  I still dearly admire the same poets I did a week ago, and I will still take great delight in discovering new poets.  It’s just that I am going to be busy trying to find my own way, watch most of you from a distance.  No anger.  No accusations.  Just how I see my place in all of this.

I hope that if any of you were offended by what I said yesterday, this helps to clarify what my real intentions were.  I hope you can make some sense of this.

Getting it off my Chest

For years I have been toying with the idea as to whether I can call myself a professional poet.  The argument against such a distinction rests in the word, amateur.  Of course.  An amateur doesn’t do something because of the money.  An amateur does something because he/she loves that activity, and there is something noble in that.  I write poetry for the love of writing poetry, not the potential for some monetary or external gain.  I agree.  However, the word professional has its own set of meanings and connotations which are virtuous.  A professional is taken seriously.  A professional lends credibility to a discussion.  A professional has freed him or her self from the shackles of the work-a-day world and has chosen passion and commitment to a higher purpose over perhaps what might be easier and more convenient.

Unfortunately, or perhaps it is better for me this way, I think I have already made that decision, whether I wanted to or not. 

Before reading any more of this blog post, you need to know I am not saying anything negative about those who are able to, in my mind, be or label themselves as professional poets.  I am speaking of my very personal inability to see myself in that capacity.  I have tremendous respect for people who earn their livings as writers and poets, as well as those people who teach writing/poetry/literature in college and are associated with teaching in any capacity.

Evidence: 

 I am a high school teacher.  I do not teach in a college writing program, and I do not advise a literary journal.  I edit one, but that is not part of this discussion.  I am part of the ‘problem’ many college instructors bemoan.  After all, I teach high school students all of those nasty habits you hear about from college writing instructors.

 I lack credentials.  Now before you go off the handle, you know as well as I do that the days of a poet being able to make a living as just a poet are gone.  I did not go to graduate school in literature, creative writing, or even American Studies.  I went to college and found poverty to be something I didn’t like, so I went out and got a job.  Yes, I teach, but I teach high school, and in today’s poetry world, I may as well be busting tires and pushing spark plugs at Bob’s 24 Hour Garage, for all the credibility teaching high school lends me.  If you are a poet and you want some credibility as a professional but don’t teach college, you had better be a doctor or a lawyer.  Of course I am exaggerating, but not by much.  There are a few exceptions to what I have said, but you should know there is also a lot of truth.

When I did go to graduate school, I did not do so for the sake of my art.  I went to school where it was cheap and for the most base of reasons.  I wanted a raise.  Again I am going on popular perception, but I seem to lack the devotion to my art which the label of professional demands.  I was not, and I am not ever going to be able to justify attending a graduate writing program so long as I find the cost not only prohibitive, but quite distasteful. 

I do not write scholarly papers regarding the act or art of writing.  I write plain-spoken poems which do not jump headlong into the waters of figurative language, and I do not write about the act of writing with much seriousness whatsoever.  I don’t rate a who’s who of readers of my blog, and I generally stay out of most of the poetry fray when controversy arises.  Well, that is unless I can find a way to release my innermost desire to be sarcastic.  Rest assured, nobody really takes much of what I have to say about writing with any level of seriousness.

I am quite literally out of the loop.  I don’t mean that in a bad way, just a statement of fact.  I am 120 miles away from any population center which warrants a Wal-Mart, let alone any sort of writer community.  I don’t attend readings, and I have to say the closest thing I have to a network is this blog, which because of Facebook will soon be one of only a handful left in existence.  As the months pass, less and less information about the poetry community is coming my way, ad I am forced to rely upon hearsay and Facebook status updates.  How do I learn about books coming out?  I don’t go to readings or faculty parties, and I don’t have anyone in my immediate life who does. I usually have to wait for a blogger friend to tell me or a press announcement on Facebook.  I know a few writers by way of e-mail, and even fewer as real people.  As I was once told by a certain poet, I “don’t know any of these very real people.” Because I am not a part of an English department or a graduate school faculty, I have very little contact with what is happening.

* * *

I have also seen a divergence between what I want to do as a poet and what I keep reading in the books of poetry I have been purchasing of late.  Don’t get me wrong.  I admire a great deal of these poets and what they are able to do.  I am simply seeing I want to go a different route.  For example, in my second Springville book, of the last 10 poems I have written for it, exactly none are the kinds of poems I want to submit for journal publication.  I want them to be the best poems I have written and I want them to be precise in language and image, but I simply cannot see any of them being accepted anywhere for publication based upon their subject matter and my execution. 

In my previous manuscript, I had 19 of the poems written for it accepted almost immediately---I was taken aback at the success I had in getting poems accepted and published.  Then nothing.  And I mean nothing.  I have been submitting other poems from the manuscript now for three years and nothing.  Now I can accept some of the poems may not be particularly well written, or written well enough, but not all of the other poems.  That I find hard to believe.  I may be a blind fool, but I believe in those poems and I cannot accept that every single one of the other poems I have submitted are not worthy of publication. 

I have also seen some pretty dreadful poetry coming out from successful poets.  Now I am not talking about poetry I don’t normally gravitate to.  I am talking about poetry which stinks up the page.  Why do those poems get published and not other poems I am reading from some very fine poets?  That’s the publishing world, and there are just some things I can’t fix the way I want. 

What it does tell me is that Collin Kelley is absolutely correct when he talks about poetry being a matter of taste for the most part.  And what I am writing, for better or worse, doesn’t seem to fall into what is trending right now.  I am not trying to come off as better than what is happening right now, just different.  I would love it if I was asked to be a part of a team to edit an anthology of poems or  contribute  to a collection of essays about writing or poetry.   (And here I must state I do realize one of the reasons I will never be asked to contribute to an anthology of essays on writing or poetry in general is because I don't do much serious writing about the act of writing.  Still,  there is a difference between not writing a lot of serious essays about writing  and poetry, and not being able to write seriously.) I would love to see my poems in Poetry or Western Humanities Review.  I would love to have my poetry anthologized or featured as an editor’s selection, or perhaps nominated for the Pushcart.  I really would.  Unfortunately I am not writing that kind of poetry.  As I stated earlier, I write poems which rarely swim in figurative language, and there are times I wish I could do that, but in the end, that kind of poetry, that place of poetry creation is not where my writing resides.

But because I love poetry, love writing poetry, love reading poetry, I will take what I can get and I will keep addressing my relationship with poetry in the ways I know how.  Even if it means I can never be a professional poet.  I am a little sad to be making this choice, or having already made it, but I know I will still write my poems, still have plenty to say about poetry, still submit poems for publication, still love what most of the poets out in the world are doing.  I will just have to be happy riding the bi-ways and back roads instead of the Poetry Freeway.